Cousteau's Daughter

Don't move, don't tell

it only hurts because you're thinking.

Go someplace, some far away place,

and think of clothes & comfort.

Don't cry out, don't make a sound

surrender but don't give in

He says you're not ten but twenty,

with a body like this, you're no baby.

But he whispers that word in your ear

baby baby baby

And suddenly you are ten going on twenty,

imagining it's all a fable in which you smile

little girl-pretty & bite the poisoned apple

that let's you sleep dreamless

inside the witch's den.

Skin crawls at a child's pace

the empty hate inside you slides into place

& you are the girl under glass

not hidden, but examined and the shame is

you imagine 4th of July fireworks

and red-hot embers flying

into your man-made crowd,

burning and scorching pain away

until all that's left is you, unashamed,

& some ashes.

Friday night flickers from the TV

black-white-black illuminates his hands

and you hear the cruel chorus

of cheerleader laughs

You see their legs, clean & strong,

kicking into the air & you know

it would never be them, lying here.

You know you will never be a cheerleader

because those glory days never began

& you could never shout with your mouth

open in favor of violent men

There's no shade of white bright enough

to erase your internal stains.

The girls in pleated skirts are Ivory white,

Crest smiled, Clorox clean.

You will never be clean again.

But you can't think about that

so you think about

Red on a knife, his blood not yours.

Tumbling through space,

white-noise to silence the demon voice

that breathes inside your ear.

A benevolent sun to burn off his sweat

so you could be dry & warm again,

flannel pajama-ed, tucked into a single bed,

Safe, secure, eyelet lace comforter

pulled up to the neck

The strongest deadbolt known to man--

that's what you want for birthday.

You begin to drift, tiny lights behind your eyes, a

firefly parade

and some things are known for certain

and some things are imagination

but if flowers can grow in the garden

no matter how dark the house

& lace curtains can cast spider shadows

on the living room wall

then you could be Costeau's daughter

and spend your life on a sailing ship

On an ocean bluer than a cheerleader's eyes

you could swim with the dolphins

& listen to the whale-song lullabyes

& schools of fish could surround you

in a silent swimming pageant

rainbow bodies too graceful & swift

to be captured by any man's net. . .

Then in the morning, when you're ten again,

you can count the clovers in your bowl of luck,

coming up short but still believing

in the magical world of leprechauns.

And you'll wait the for magic.

Wanting, desperately, to learn how to swim.

-Jessica Devin, copyright 1997

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Copyright © 1997 Nevada Dansie